Nightingale, was enjoying the late morning, his hang over not as bad as he would have expected with his wild night out with Professor Storm, but he'd slept well. The first weekend from the students was always one of the hardest, but he'd forgotten how poorly he slept inside the castle. His slumber plagued with nightmares, and nearly every little noise reminded him of how eerie that stone structure could be--especially after the war. Being back at the castle made him want a place of his own more than he could fathom, but he wasn't ready to be on his own just yet. His heart needed mending, and though his mind was in a better place--he heart still suffered.

"Good morning, Professor," The shopkeep smiled as the white haired youth made his way into the store, bringing with him the freshly fallen snow, and the Winter Prince only grinned in return.

"Bonjour," Gale answered in his native tongue, and when he switched to English his Picardy accent was as light yet rich, "Do you have anything new?" He came up to the counter with his hands in his pockets, excited to be here in the company of friends; leather bound books with epic tales of both fantasy and freedom.

"I do. And I have the book you ordered." The Charms Professor smiled and excused himself to look down the rows of the newer releases and grinned to see Dolly's latest book there. It made him excited for their little date, more than he ever thought he would be with a woman. However, he let the novel remain on the shelf as her stories were not his type, and fingered over a book with a deep rich text and bound in burnt umber.

Little silver glasses were removed from his bag and he perched them on the end of his nose before opening the cover to get absolutely, positively, one hundred percent completely enthralled in The History of Butterfly Migrations and the Moon. Where they related? It made sense. Absolutely! And it was fascinating, and he couldn't put it down. Standing there in the middle of the books he became lost to the world, only moving every now and then to push his glasses back on his nose.

It was a wonder he ever survived school. 

Mornings had never agreed well with Roger, which is ironic considering he usually rose in the early dawn hours by his own free-will. Some mornings he awoke at half-past-six for his morning run before practice and others, like today, waking up occurred slowly, begrudgingly, at half-past-eight. Knowing full-well going out with the team for post New Years Eve celebrations (nevermind the fact Roger swore he still felt hung-over from the New Years celebrations a week prior) was not a good idea, he had thrown caution into the wind.

Head slightly clearer after the morning run, the only proper way to fight off a now week long hangover would be to sit inside curled up on the couch with a good book and some ice cream. There was only one problem: Roger had read all of the books on his shelf. From Fiend Folio to the ever muggle classic Charlie Bone series, even his favorite e: The Story of a Number had been read so much the book's spine had broken, causing the binded pages to seperate into three distinctive chunks.

Roger popped into existence in the small designation point outside of Obscurus Books. Taking a moment, he gripped at the edge of the wall and wished away the discomfort in his stomach; appartation and Roger never did agree with each other. Trusting his legs and equilibrium, he made his way out into the crowd for the short walk to the familiar bookstore's entrance.

Once inside the noise from the crowd died away, as though the shop were enchanted to mimic the comfortable silence of a library. Packed all around from floor to ceiling were books: fat encyclopedias, squat little books, thin periodicals, and even a row of books whose covers continued to change color and random intervals. Breathing in deep the warm smell of bound and printed parchment filled Roger's nose and a small smile slipped upon his lip. How could muggles ever attempt to replace books with their technology?

"Good morning!" He called out, giving a way to the shop keeper and the other patron with curiously colored hair whose face was buried in a book. Pale blue eyes strained for a moment, studying the given details. This person seemed familiar.

He hadn't realized how long he had been there until the sound of the door caused him to jump, breaking his concentration only long enough to mention to the keep about the differences between butterfly species and their migrational habits. However, during his little bit of vocalization Gale feel silent again as the book captured him again.

Good morning! A voice called out, but Gale hardly noticed. Unlike the Shopkeep who was star struck at the man who entered. His face was on many posters! How could he not know this face! How wonderful it was to see him here! The man was quick to say just that, and when the door shut behind Roger Gale jumped a little before looking up.

Fraking Roger Davies.

Oh how he couldn't forget this bloke. They had gone to school together, and Roger well...he had everything going for him, or so Gale always thought. He was being studied by the man, and Gale wanted to scoff. Of course he wouldn't remember him, or at least his name. No doubt he would probably recognize Nightingale more with his head stuffed down the toilet or turned over in the trash can....or stuffed in a closet....or with his underwear over his head. Even if Roger himself never took part of these 'pranks' Gale was tormented in school, everyone knew that.

With a glare at the man through his only visible eye it seemed less sinister with the glasses on, but his lips flattened in distaste. He needed to get out of here, and moved to make his purchase.

"Excuse me," He muttered quietly trying to get the Keep's attention who was just stammering over the player, and ignored his patron.

"Oh! Good morning, Roger Davies!" The shopkeeper said in a would-be casual voice, suddenly perking right up and all traces of early morning fatigue gone. Scurrying out from behind the counter he seized Roger's hand in an enthusiastic shake. "How wonderful to see you!" Roger's pale blue eyes looked away from the familiar pale hair to the shopkeep, and gave a very practiced smile.

"Nice to see you too!" Years of dealing with fans made it easy to slip into this mask. It wasn't that Roger disliked fans, on the contrary, he very much enjoyed talking to those with  enthusiasm of Quidditch, but at times the affects of fame and starstruck behavior could become tiresome, especially at this moment when getting back to his flat with a new book as swiftly as possible became an unlikely scenario. "I thought I'd pop by for a good read, something new. The last book you recommended I read so much the spine broke!"

"I do apologize, Mr. Davies," The shopkeeper said, shaking Roger's hand again. "Our books are usually much higher quality! I can replace it if you like!"

Roger suppressed a frown. His comment was meant to be a compliment. Pushing past the mild misunderstanding, he shrugged his shoulders casually. "No, its fine. I loved the book and plan to keep it. What do you have that is new? Ideally something, oh, I dunno," he reached up and raked his hand through a mess of dark curls. "...Epic?" He finished rather lamely.

"I have a very interesting new series! Just unpacked it this morning! Let me fetch it and see what you think." The shopkeep paused, looking over at Gale. "I'll be with you in just a moment!" He said brightly, giving a smile as he headed off to the storage room and leaving Roger alone with the strange man who looked as though he were permanently bathed in moonlight. Once more, Roger looked at him, giving an apologetic sort of smile, and taking a moment to study the man once more. Surely he knew this stranger from somewhere.

With a huff he closed his book over the counter and tried to concentrate on the purchase, there were a few others waiting for him behind the counter, but now his curiosity perked at what Roger thought of as ...Epic. However, he felt the other man's eyes on him again and fought his stomach from turning. Did he mean to so openly stare? Rather obvious of it. Did he fancy a shag in the back? Was that it? Think he'd get lucky with one more "fan." Ha! Or was he trying to put a name to a face that he probably forgot existed until this very moment.

"You probably don't know my name anymore, if you ever did, so you can stop looking for it." Gale opened his book again, to study an image on the page. He'd enjoy this tonight in his little rented flat downtown.

"We went to school together, but we were not in the same house. I can't recall a time when we had a conversation. So don't beat yourself up about it. As I recall you didn't do well in school anyway." Gale let his chin fall to his palm as he started to read again over the text.

"You probably don't know my name anymore, if you ever did, so you can stop looking for it." Roger ever so slightly gave a start as the man spoke, taken aback by the forceful hiss in his voice. "We went to school together, but we were not in the same house. I can't recall a time when we had a conversation. So don't beat yourself up about it. As I recall you didn't do well in school anyway." Striking a chord in Roger's pride regarding his intelligence, his lips parted to defend his grades at Hogwarts.

"Actually, I was a fairly decent student." Roger replied with collected coolness and barely hidden arrogance in his voice. "Perhaps we just were not on the same level and that is why we did not cross paths." He concluded matter-of-factly. The piercingly light blue eyes studying the man even more, as though he were a puzzle; an infuriating puzzle insulting his intelligence. "So, who are you anyway?"

"Perhaps we just were not on the same level and that is why we did not cross paths."

"I didn't say we never crossed paths," Gale turned the page pretending to be far more interested in the butterflies than the man, "I just said we never spoke to one another." Arthur, the Slytherin boy he'd taken as a lover had often tormented people like Roger, but now it was his turn to admit he couldn't remember if Davies had been victim to the black hearted boy who had taken him in.

"So, who are you anyway?"

With a sigh Gale looked up from the book, and pulled off his glasses to tuck them away. He supposed he owed the man this much, but giving out a name was like offering the only part of him a stranger could take. He'd hoped to avoid it.

"You want my name?" He caught the man's eyes again, admiring them a moment. Roger had always had beautiful eyes. Striking in color, and giving him a sort of somber sadness despite all of the perfectly performed smiles. Perhaps, he'd been too harsh.

"And I suppose it wouldn't have mattered how you did in school. You were such a great player, the Professors passed you no matter what. Funny how that still happens. I get more howlers about it than anything else. By the end of the day I'd happily just pass them than face the wrath of their parents, but that wouldn't be very fair now would it?" With a look over his shoulder for the Keep he tried to look anywhere other than at Roger.

"I didn't say we never crossed paths," ... "I just said we never spoke to one another."

The line of his lips became rigid and a slight glare came to his face. The man's utter petulance shook Roger, and he racked his brain, trying to find a source for this seemingly random ill-will. Of course, he was not without enemies, but those people were usually limited in opinion to Roger Davies the Quidditch Player, usually not Roger Davies the person and certainly not the young man he had been at Hogwarts. Shifting irritably, Roger crossed his arms over his chest.

"I am starting to see why." He muttered, casting a glance back toward the door the shopkeeper had disappeared behind. Looking back at the man's question, Roger gave a slight huff. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know." His words tinted in both impatience and annoyance, Roger glared at the silver-haired man a bit indignantly for having his abilities questioned. Still, his expression softened to allow a spread of curiosity into his gaze. "You're a professor, then?" Realizing how pedantic the question sounded, Roger uncrossed his arms and took a step closer, as though bridging the gap between them would help reconnect any memories.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to know."

When the man closed the distance between them Gale felt his shadow almost like a threat, but not the sort you cowered from. He had to tip his head back a little to keep the man's eye (he almost always did), but instead of a bit of anger he smirked lightly,

"And I suppose you are just used to always getting what you ask for?" This close he could smell the wind on Roger, the one thing that always set out players from regular wizards. The world outside was cold, of course, but he could almost swear he smelled the rain on Roger as if he the man kept a storm cloud in his breast pocket.

"I am. A professor that is. Charms. As that will be your next question." Not quite a celebrated one, but Gale was getting better at being liked--he was just so strange and often let his emotions get the better of him. The students liked him well enough, but of all the staff...maybe a handful received him well.

"It's good to see you still have your wits about you. Most Quidditch players all lose their marbles after the first few years," He gave a small shrug after clutching his book to his chest, "Happens I suppose. People crack under fame, or too many hits to the head." Without thinking he went to push back the glasses that were no longer there, and flushed slightly at having to squint to check the door.

"So you are coming in for something...Epic, huh? Swords, dragons, damsels in distress? Waiting for hero Roger to come pull them from their tower? Shall I hope for pictures then? To help illustrate the scenery?"

"And I suppose you are just used to always getting what you ask for?"

For a long, uncomfortable minute that surprisingly unsettled Roger, he simply stared at this curious man with an intense gaze that seemed to pry into his thoughts. They were standing a mere few feet apart, so close that Roger swore the man had some sort of inner light shining from his pores. A troubled sort of look swept through the blue hues. "Not really." Roger meant to degrade the statement but the words didn't come out as intended and was more of an inquiry than a snort. In the back of his mind, however, a nagging voice seemed to suggest with a nasty, haughty tone, that Roger was indeed used to getting whatever he asked for.

"It's good to see you still have your wits about you. Most Quidditch players all lose their marbles after the first few years"..."Happens I suppose. People crack under fame, or too many hits to the head."

Feeling an overwhelming urge to smack the book out of the stranger's hands, as though it were insulting him, Roger's right hand twitched ever so slightly, and then rose to brush back an unruly curl poking at the side of his temple.  The intensity of Roger's glance burnt a hole in the other man but the message, the warning ("don't you dare go that way") in it got seemingly disregarded as the stranger scratched at his nose with what appeared casual disregard. 

"So you are coming in for something...Epic, huh? Swords, dragons, damsels in distress? Waiting for hero Roger to come pull them from their tower? Shall I hope for pictures then? To help illustrate the scenery?"

Roger was still gruff, clearly displeased by the change of subject, keenly trying to make the conversation as short he could. "Simply tired of reading about math." Taking a step back, he cast a glance over his shoulder, wondering where the shopkeep had gone off to. Surely it wouldn't be this hard to find a newly unpacked book? Placing his gaze back on the man, Roger sneered ever so slightly. "Something I'm sure you wouldn't have much interest in." Blue eyes pointedly looked at the title of the stranger's book, then back up to the man's face; he would be a very handsome man if it weren't for the dark and ugly feelings pouring out of him and contradicting the graceful features.

The temper that displayed over the other's emotions was comical, and Gale caught himself biting his lip to keep from laughing. It was rather fun to watch him come undone a little, to see a very human like expression on the poster child of a sport. It made him pity Roger a little, but overall lightened his mood against him. Gale had struck a cord in Roger, though he couldn't say he held any regret towards the action, but he did wish to mend it a little until....The topic returned to math and his supposed little interest Gale arched a thin brow at the man, and gave him his own scowl.

"No. I suppose there mustn't be math in anything that I am reading. There are no calculations of moon settings, calendar days or the speed and distance traveled by each species," He turned away from the man to place his books on the counter when the Keep returned. The man's false smile and book in his hand suggesting that his interest was more in Roger than it ever would be in the Professor and Gale wanted to hiss at this man too!

Gale didn't give him a chance to talk.

"Math is in everything Roger, even a book with pictures has to have some sort of calculation to when it's logical to be placed on the page," Gale turned on his heel to glare at him again, "And the pages have to have numbers in case people with sticks for brains get lost." With the word sticks he gave a little pointed look at Davies.

The shopkeep was in a bit of shock and kept trying to interrupt, but finally fell silent to watch this little battle of wits.

The shopkeeper had returned to what must have looked like a very bizarre and quiet sort of war between his two patrons. Clutching the long sought after book to his chest, he peered nervously between the two men. Of course Gale was a beloved customer but it wasn't every day a famous Quidditch player walked through the door. He pondered what could have brought these two customers to such a tense battle, especially over something as trivial as mathematics. The shopkeeper nervously kept his eyes on Roger, before looking at Gale.

"Math is in everything Roger, even a book with pictures has to have some sort of calculation to when it's logical to be placed on the page," ... "And the pages have to have numbers in case people with sticks for brains get lost."

His eyebrows wrinkled in a sardonic way as he strode up to the counter, standing painfully close to this rude man. "You're a lot smarter than you behave." At this distance Roger could see the flecks of coloring in his eyes, at the downward turn of his lips, and feel the disdain like burning radiation.

Looking back to the shopkeeper, Roger smiled easily though his eyes betrayed annoyance. Slipping into this unphased role so easily like a second skin honestly scared the hell out of him, but this mask was the only thing that protected an otherwise fragile Roger from the harsh realities of the world; realities that this stranger so poisonously pointed out.

"The book is perfect." Without even looking at the title, Roger dug out a handful of galleons and placed them on the counter, not bothering to count. He would be damned if this stranger, who for a moment got the best of him, would get service first. As petty as it seemed, Roger would have this victory.

Glancing back to the man, he stared into the pale eyes. "Whatever happened to you at Hogwarts happened decades ago. For someone who is supposedly a Professor you behave more like a scorned school girl." Pausing for a beat, his features softened. "I really do pity you." Worrying his bottom lip for a brief moment, Roger gathered up the book and turned, walking towards the door and letting it shut with a snap behind him
.
He would need a smoke and a drink after this. 

Pity? Gale wanted to laugh, but waited until the man was out of sight. What gave him any right to feel the need to pity him at all. He wasn't the one running with his tale tucked between his legs, and flouncing out like a decelerated school girl. The room felt vacant the moment the other man left it, as if mourning his presence, and Gale felt himself suffocated of the lingering electricity that came with the other's mood. Had he truly upset the man that much? Did he even care?

'Will that be all Professor?' The shop keep's voice broke his thoughts and Gale gave him a small nod, "Yes thank you." As he took out his wallet Gale noticed a familiar face staring at him, and those blue eyes couldn't be missed. The hallow, nearly haunted false smile on the other man's lips took up a space in his heart, and perhaps he'd seen a glimpse of it when Roger was here, it wasn't the same immortal on the print. Perhaps the young man hadn't meant to come off so falsely represented to the press, but cameras were horrid at showing the truth.

"Actually...this too," Gale handed the man the magazine about Quidditch this season, and the keep lifted a brow but didn't question, "Thank you."

Carefully with his package he tucked it down in his bag he carried over one shoulder. The leather messengers bag near full now with his shopping day nearly finished, but he still had a few stops to make yet before going back home. Gale made his way out into the gentle drizzle of winter rain. It had been a sunny day, with little showers here and there, and though the water fell there was blue sky behind them. The little burst wouldn't last long, and all but stopped as he heard voices raised just ahead on the streets.

Press. Everywhere. So this was what the Keep had done while taking so long. Had he called them all here? Just to get his store on the magazine covers? Gale turned a disgusted look over his shoulder just to confirm his suspicions, and now it was his turn to feel pity for the man. There wasn't a way out!

Gale withdrew his wand, and with a heavy sigh cast a spell quietly, "Averte Pedeum a Tuum A Malo."[1] The sea of people parted ways, but before Roger could be swept away with them Gale hooked his arm with the other man and pulled him along.

1.	A charm that parts any moveable object, and taught to the NEWT level students here.

Closing the door harder than he meant, Roger's heart skipped a beat at the snap of wood and metal meeting, and his stomach jostled around with anxiety. What the hell was that about? Sure, back in his day at Hogwarts, Roger had been a little careless with the feelings of others, too young and stupid to understand the power his words and actions had. Why should he? As one of the most popular boys during his time there, people often dismissed his actions with a wave of the hand. Roger never went out of his way to be rude to others, really, those who disliked him where of no concern to him... to his friends, however...


At least all that was over. Cold drops of rain slid down the sides of Roger's face and neck, matting down the unruly raven curls. Expelling a sigh of frustration, glanced back at the shop awhile digging into the pocket of his jeans and extracted a small black pack of clove cigarettes. He bloody needed a cigarette. Or a bottle of whiskey. Ideally both. He lit the cigarette; raspy scraping of the flint, a crackle as the flame bit in the tobacco. Slowly, he blew the smoke out and headed off. Not making it very far, a voice rang out in the damp air.

"Oy! Roger Davies!" Pausing, Roger turned to the sound of the voice, and immediately frowned. Fantastic. The bloody press. "Roger, wait!" A portly man called out, leading a pack of familiar faces. Evzen Tierney of the Weekly, of course. Followed by his photographer sidekick Ralph Craig. Behind him a pretty, young witch from the Daily Prophet followed in his wake. Selena Gibson. In Roger's opinion she'd have a fine career if she'd stop following around (and sleeping with) famous wizards. As usual, the standard Weekly photographer walked at her side. Turning on his heel, Roger sped up and hoped to lose them around the corner, but unfortunately someone by the name of Todd Roper and Eric Smith intercepted him.

"Hullo Roger!" Todd smiled, though there was nothing friendly about his smile. "Fancy seeing you here! Mind if we get a word? Just a quick one?"

Roger snatched the barely-smoked cigarette from between his lips and threw it to the ground. What a waste. "Not today, mate. I'm in a bit of a rush." He said firmly, locking eyes with the reporter and giving him a brief stare down. Evzen, huffing and puffing, came up behind Roger and Todd.

"Roger. Davies. I'm Evzen. Tierney. Witch Wee-"

"I know who you are." Cutting him off, Roger felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. Fantastic, he couldn't back away and people on the street had halted, craning their necks to see. Typical of reporters to cause such a fuss. "I really don't have much to say today, sorry."

"It will only take a moment!" Todd replied silkly. "Come on now, be a sport! The World Cup is this year, after all, and people are dying to know if you will represent Ireland or England?"

"I don't want to contribute to the rumor mill." Roger sighed, kneading his forehead. "If you want to ask me about the current season or the next match, fine, but I don't wan-"

"Are you really going for captain?" Selena smiled, her quill perched on a scrap of parchment. He'd made the mistake of sleeping with her once, and ever since the Prophet sent her out for any assignment related to him. It was as irritating as it was pathetic.

More people were crowding now around the reporters and Roger, curious looks on their faces. If a fan jumped in for an autograph then he'd have to start answering questions. In the hub-bub of the commotion, no one seemed to notice the silver-haired man coming up behind them, and they certainly didn't see him pull out his wand and wave it at the group. Shrieks of surprise sounded as the crowd was forcefully parted. Roger even jumped back slightly, but found himself swept away by the same rude man from the shop. His brain registered they were moving swiftly away from the crowd, but his reaction was to, unsuccessfully pull his arm away from the other's grip.

"What are you doing?"

Gale had cast a notice-me-not on his own person long before he swept Davies away, but when the man pulled back the crowd became aware of him. He shook his head and looked out over the crowd still parted, and returned a glance at Roger.

"Coming to your aid fair maiden, what does it look like?" He answered with a bitter sound on his tongue, something that Gale wasn't used to hearing on his voice, "Would you like me to leave you to the wolves?" He held up his wand and waited for Davies to answer. "You were ambushed by the clerk, Little Man, don't think this is my doing." He rolled his wand in his palm a moment before folding his hands before him.

"It won't hold much longer, come with me, I'll get you clear of this mess."